A Story Unfolds: His Heart
by Dreamer4life16
Summary: "Name: Elizabeth Sophia Holmes, Nationality: British, Age: Twelve, Father: ..." The man smirked darkly, "One Mycroft Holmes, oh how utterly, delicious." He snapped the folder shut and grabbed her chin, "We're going to have so much fun together, love." He mocked.
1. Chapter 1

**Title: A Story Unfolds: His Heart**

 **World: Sherlock (Set after Series 3, no 'Moriarty returns', disregards Series 4 for now)**

 **Main POV: Mycroft Holmes, may sometimes vary.  
**

 **Rating: M for Blood, Gore, Adult Themes and Strong Language**

 **Beta: Myself (I do triple check for mistakes but if any, point them out :))**

 **Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock, but I do own Elizabeth.**

 **Author's Note: Honestly guys, I _really_ shouldn't start a new story, but I have. I've been on a Sherlock kick lately (how could one _not_ be on a Sherlock kick) and this idea popped into my head. Crazy really, but it wouldn't leave me alone and I figured I'd share my idea with everyone else. So here it is, _A Story Unfolds: His Heart_ , I hope I've got everyone in character, fingers crossed. This starts after Series 3 but disregards Moriarty's return and Series 4, Sherlock was banished for around five minutes before being brought back (Like in the special episode). Without further adieu, I give you this. Enjoy! **

* * *

The day was like any other in Mycroft's opinion, dull. Utterly dull. North Korea had its typically semiannually tantrum which had taken him no more than three hours to smooth out. But then a rather important MP seemed to run into a touch of trouble with a sex scandal landing on his desk. Mycroft, of course, had been assigned to clear his name and he had. Reasonably quickly and all before lunchtime.

Some would say that's a job well done, a war averted, and a high profile scandal swept away before it could get out. Mycroft called it a Wednesday. Boring, dull and so typically ordinary.

The portrait of her Majesty the Queen looked down on Mycroft as he sipped from his teacup. His finger ran over the keypad on his laptop, his mouse moved over the half-finished secure email providing Top Secret Intel to the CIA. With a sigh, Mycroft set his cup down with a faint _clink_ and resumed his typing.

 _I don't need to inform you, Director, that this information needs to handled with the utmost care. I've done what was discussed at our meeting prior to this email. Attached is a fifteen paged document, in there you will find all the information you need. It would seem, Director, you should be more careful of those you hire under suspicious 'recommendations.'_

 _Hope this finds you in the best of health,_

 _Mycroft Holmes_

As soon as he pressed the send button, Anthea, all but burst into the room.

"Excuse me Mr. Holmes, but we seem to have a _slight_ problem." She spoke with a tint of worry.

Mycroft raised a brow and shut the lid of his laptop down and laced his fingers together. His look telling her to continue and she did, "There's been a bomb explosion near central London sir," she looked down at her phone before speaking again "At Westminster Station. No terrorist organization has confirmed it was them as of yet, sir."

Mycroft leaned back in his chair, picked up his cup of tea and grimaced at the coldness of it. Setting it down he looked at his secretary, "Has the TRT responded?"

"Not of yet sir, they're still two minutes out. But ambulances and Scotland Yard are on enroute."

"Hmm," Mycroft stood up and walked around his desk, grabbing his signature black umbrella on his way out the door, "I want a list of all casualties, ensure that no MPs or any other high profile people were caught in it. This is much too close to Big Ben and Downing Street for it to be a random bombing, their target is someone of high status."

"Yes sir," came the response.

As they left the building a sleek black BMW waited for them, Mycroft slid into the car, the door being held open by a man who then got into the passenger seat "To Buckingham Palace, and do step on it." He told the driver before looking to Anthea "Arranged to have Elizabeth picked up from school and brought to Buckingham."

"Of course sir, may I ask why?" Anthea asked as she clicked away on her phone, ordering a man to go and pick up her boss' daughter.

Mycroft looked out his car window "I did say their target is someone of high status, it's better to be safe than sorry my dear."

* * *

"Ms. Elizabeth Holmes," a pair of blue eyes looked up and towards the door where a man in a black suit stood, clearly he worked for her father but what on earth was he doing here? School ended in exactly two hours and forty-six minutes and ten seconds. Her teacher and the class turned to look at Elizabeth, who was still staring at the man, her brow raised, the man spoke: "I've been ordered to collect you, Ms. Holmes, by your father."

Elizabeth sighed, her father sure loved to make things dramatic, but she suppose it ran in the family, her uncle being the very same way. She stood up, grabbed her bookbag and moved to leave the room, the stares and whispers of her fellow classmates echoing in her ears. When they left the school building the man, she deduced to be the driver opened the back seat door for her. As she settled in her seat, bookbag next to her, Elizabeth's phone chimed.

A message from her father. Odd, he detests texting, not if he could speak. Perhaps he had another toothache? Although he seemed fine when she left the house this morning for school.

 _There's been a bombing, you should arrive at Buckingham Palace in forty minutes to an hour. MH_

Ah, too busy to talk then. Her phone chimed again almost immediately after.

 _I do apologize, darling, for interrupting you during school hours. MH_

Elizabeth rolled her eyes, she hardly cared about that, secondary school was dull, the teachers, idiotic, and her fellow classmates, imbeciles. Her father knew this. She recalled the conversation they had when she told him her teacher was rather, for lack of better words, stupid, and why couldn't she just skip school, she hardly needed it.

He, of course, rebuked that: _"If you want to work for the British Government darling, then you'll need an education. No child of mine is going to get a position they did not earn."_

 _"But daddy, it's **so** boring."_

They had come to an agreement if she continued her schooling then twice a week her father would take her into his work and 'show her the ropes' as some would say. But a bombing, that sounded _fun_.

 _Can I help? EH_

 _I could hardly keep you away, but I do believe you've only come into work with me once this week. MH_

Elizabeth smiled, that was his way of saying yes. How exciting though, a bombing! They hardly had enough of those in London. Usually, when she went with him, there was nothing to do, just high profile scandals or the CIA needing her father's help. Although there was that time roughly six months ago, where North Korea had their 'semiannually tantrum' as her father called it. She remembered that Russia and China had gotten involved, which lead to the Americans sticking their noses in. Now, _that_ had been fun. Her father had allowed her to sit in on the talks between the four countries. He even asked for her input, once the meeting had finished of course.

She wondered if next week she could convince her uncle Sherlock to take her on one of his cases. He still had yet to introduce her to John Watson, a man she knew all about, thanks to her father but had not yet met.

A loud honk pulled Elizabeth from her plans of meeting one Dr. Watson, "Sorry Ms, there seems to have been a crash ahead. I'll have to take another route."

As the car did a u-turn, Elizabeth frowned, honestly couldn't people drive right? Now they were going to have the take the long way round. Sighing the twelve-year-old opened a reading app on her phone, _Treasure Island_ , being one of her favorite books to read as a time passer.

Roughly twenty minutes later they were crossing over Waterloo bridge before an ear piercing sound exploded to the left of her, the car flipped and rolled twice before coming to an upside-down stop. Elizabeth blinked liquid out of her eyes twice, the sounds of ringing echoed throughout her ears. With a groan, Elizabeth managed to unbuckle her seat belt, but the let out a low whine as she slammed hard onto the car roof, glass cutting into her arms and legs. Her head hurt, but she managed to wipe away the liquid that kept getting into her eyes, a glance at her left hand showed her it was blood.

A quick movement of her eyes towards her driver showed him to be unmoving, alive but unconscious. Most likely from the blow suffered to his head. Tears fell from her eyes as she tried to move her right arm, _broken and a concussion_ her mind deduced for her.

Where was her phone? She should contact her father, let him know that she was going to be longer than an hour now.

Glass laid under her left cheek, even turning her head brought forth pain and the sound of it scraping as it scratched against the roof. She managed to lift herself up with her left arm, she tried biting back a cry of pain, but a whimper still left her as glass embedded itself deeper into her knees. Her phone laid shattered a foot in front of her, her bookbag had spilled all over, papers and books lay scattered about. Tears still fell from her eyes, right now all she wanted was her father.

The sound of footsteps reached her ears and then the prying of the door, the metal bent and screeched as the men –from the low rough voices she could make out– continued to try and open it. She heard a man shout for them to _"Hurry the hell up!"_ Another cursed loudly as the door refused to open.

"H-Hello?" she called out, voice hoarse.

The shuffling and prying of the door stopped but then started up again, faster this time. Finally not a minute later the door was ripped off, Elizabeth looked up with teary hopeful eyes, thinking it was search and rescue, only for them to widen in pure horror.

* * *

 **Well...? Are they in character? BTW, for those who don't know, TRT means Tactical Response Team.  
**

 **Try not to use a flamethrower on me please! Constructive criticism is welcome though.**

 **Let me know what you think in the reviews and like always, Fav and all that jazz ;)**


	2. Chapter 2

**Title: A Story Unfolds: His Heart**

 **World: Sherlock (Set after Series 3, no Moriarty returns, disregards Series 4 for now)**

 **Main POV: Mycroft Holmes, may sometimes vary.  
**

 **Rating: M for Blood, Gore, Adult Themes and Strong Language**

 **Beta: Myself (I do triple check for mistakes but if any, point them out :))**

 **Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock, but I do own Elizabeth.**

 **Author's Note: Here it is, Chapter two! Finally out. A quick but BIG thank you to those who followed, favorite'd and Reviewed! I wasn't really expect much. So that must mean the story is somewhat good right? Again, I hope I've managed to keep everyone in character. If you think someone is a bit off don't be shy to let me know and I'll try my best to correct it :) This chappy is longer than the last one so enjoy it :D Now before I bore you, on with the show!**

* * *

Mycroft growled and threw the rather large stack of papers on his desk; knocking over his thankfully empty water glass. It had been a whole day, _twenty-four hours_ since he was informed that his daughter was missing and that her driver had been killed with a gunshot wound to the head. Clearly, it was a sign that showed that the other party was willing to kill.

And not even one speck of information could be found, **_not one_**. They had no idea who had orchestrated the whole thing. They, of course, knew that the bombing and the explosion on the bridge were done by the same people but anything beyond that was unknown.

He had MI5, MI6, New Scotland Yard, as well as the whole bloody British Government out looking for her, alerts had been passed out to borders and airports, and still, there was nothing.

Although that meant she hadn't left the country unless they smuggled her out. Which was entirely plausible.

But it was safe to say the very least, Mycroft was _pissed_.

Very rarely had Mycroft ever lashed out at those who worked for him. He prides himself on being able to keep a very level head in almost all situations, but this was different. This wasn't an agent who was trained for this sort of thing, this wasn't his little brother who had the wits and mental capability to withstand something like this. This was a twelve-year-old girl, and no matter how incredibly smart she was –thanks to his rather impressive genes being passed on– she was just a child. His child. The very one he swore to protect as she was swaddled in blankets and passed into his arms.

Contrary to popular belief, he did have a heart, she was his heart. He'd never admit it to anyone, but that moment he held her tiny form and she looked up at him with her slight frown and those stormy blue eyes; that never changed even as she grew older, he melted and forever became wrapped around her little fingers.

And to think that she was out there god knows _where_ with god knows _who_ while they did god knows _what_ to her. Drove him insane.

Did he really have such incompetent people working for him? God, they were all fired. Every single one of them.

Mycroft moved to the small cabinet he kept in the corner of his office, where he opened his 1965 Rémy Martin VSOP brandy. Rarely did Mycroft allow himself the pleasure of such an old drink but he was beyond stressed, and as most would say, perhaps a little _liquid luck_ would help him. It was a ridiculous notion, but at the moment, Mycroft would try anything. He filled his glass a quarter of the way full and downed it in one go.

As he refilled it for another shot, Anthea walked in; she was a little out of breath looking like she had just run a four-mile marathon.

"Sir, sir! They found something," She held out two little black cards.

Mycroft looked at her and then took the cards; his glass of Brandy in one hand and his eyebrow raised. He looked down at them, they were apparently a calling card; the card itself was pitch black and in the middle of it was a vivid red heart with a golden crown perched on the right side of it. Mycroft furrowed his brow, he had seen this card before, but where?

"They found it at the first bombing site and the second was found on the body of the driver. The pathologist didn't think anything of it, so they never reported it, they just assumed it was part of his personal effects." Anthea explained.

Mycroft sighed irritatedly, "What incompetent people, fire him." he told her dismissively. His irritation levels were at a new high, did the idiot not know that everything was evidence until otherwise proven? Clearly not. He indeed was surrounded by goldfish.

These cards though, he was sure he had seen them somewhere. Thinking, he moved back towards his desk and sat down.

Ah, that's it, now he remembers.

Three years ago, a Chinese Government official had come to London with his daughter, not three days into their stay had there been a shooting. The Chinese official's daughter had been killed, and when they had found where the shooter shot from, they had also found a single black card with a red heart and a golden crown perched on the window sill.

Mycroft's eyes widened, _oh no_ , he stood up quickly and rushed towards the door and out. Anthea followed behind her boss being sure to grab his umbrella and coat.

"Bring the car around quickly," He told Anthea, taking his umbrella from her as she helped him into his coat. "We're going to see my brother."

* * *

"CONGRATULATIONS!"

Sherlock cringed as those around him cheered at John and Mary. Somehow he had been coerced into being here, here being, John and Mary's baby shower for their newborn baby girl. Fairly ridiculous in his opinion, it wasn't like the baby would remember it. Besides, weren't baby showers done _before_ the baby was born not after? That being said John was his best friend and as his best friend, it was his job to be there and support him…at least that's what the website on the internet said.

Sherlock _hated_ baby showers, not that he had been to many, he remembers all too well the _other_ _one_ he had been forced to go to. Mycroft thankfully had been subject to that torture also. He didn't see the appeal in having a smelly, slobbery, screaming baby, honestly, _why_ did people even want them?

Unfortunately for him, being a single guy who was a famous _hat_ –really London really?– Detective had its downfalls. That being that many single women seemed to think he was looking for some sort of commitment. Which he was _not_. Like he told John all those years ago, he considers himself married to his work.

He was pulled from his inner self-dialog by a woman with ginger hair, a quick deduction told him everything he needed to know. Recently single, been out of a relationship for, five, no, _seven_ months, so not that recent. Two cats and a dog, small, wasn't really ginger, her roots were black. She thinks that the color brightens her up, it doesn't, it make her look rather pale in his opinion. And has a…sadism kink. Beyond that, Sherlock didn't really care to look further. She was clearly looking for something from him, something he was _clearly_ not going to give. And it had nothing to do with the fact that he had heard her talking to her _friends_ about his cheekbones. Why always his cheekbones?

Before she could even open her mouth, he said, "Sorry, not interested." And walked off to John who was standing in the corner of the function room.

"You alright?" John asked holding a cup of non-alcoholic fruit punch, he had that 'glow' of a proud father. Something Sherlock had ever only seen on his brother when he talked about his daughter.

"Why is everyone always going on about my cheekbones? They're just muscles on a face." Sherlock looked a bit put out when John started chuckling.

"Well, you do have rather nice, y'know," he gestured to his own face, but stopped when Sherlock gave him a confused look, "Nevermind, look, do you want some punch? It's not half bad." He pushed his cup into Sherlock's hand.

With a slight grumble, Sherlock was forced to take it before he spilled it on himself. "I never understand these things, what's the point of them, John? So you get gifts? Is that the point, you get free gifts. Why have we never done something like this and got free gifts?"

"T-That's not the point Sherlock, it's so everyone can meet Rosamund."

Sherlock just hummed.

And not a moment later Mary showed up with baby Rosamund in her arms, she had that glow of a new mother and looked positively beyond happy, and then she taking the cup from Sherlock and pushing the baby into his arms, with a "Go to uncle Sherlock."

It wasn't Sherlocks first time holding the baby, but nonetheless, he was noticeably awkward. And while he held his niece from time to time, it had been rare. Something he was grateful for.

This though, this was disastrous, at least to him it was. Baby Rosamund seemed to share his sentiment much to the amusement of her parents. Only _sometimes_ though. For now, she seemed to be content.

"It's amazing how she doesn't scream when you hold her, one would think…" Mary whacked John on his arm making him trail off.

Sherlock gave him an unamused look before fumbling for a second as the child squirmed in his arms.

"Do be careful brother dear, you just might drop the poor thing. What would her parents think of that, hm?" A voice came from behind them,

"Mycroft." Sherlock mumbled as he turned, "I won't drop her." He added.

Mycroft gave him one of his 'whatever you say' smiles before looking briefly at Mary and John, "I do think the proper customary is to congratulate one when they have a child." He told them. "So, my congratulations."

"Err, thanks," John replied, sharing a look with Mary. Just a little confused on why Mycroft was there. Usually, it wasn't good.

Mycroft smiled politely before turning to his brother looking rather serious, "I need to speak to you, Sherlock."

"Can't. Can't you see I'm holding a baby? Much too busy." Came the quick reply. Sherlock lifted his arms a little showing Mycroft the baby. Rosamund chose that moment to start crying.

Again, Mycroft smiled politely which seemed to hold just a touch of anger to it "Don't be silly brother mine, you hardly look comfortable." A bit of irritation entered his voice.

Sherlock seemed to pause for a moment, and before John or Mary could take the crying child, he had already passed her off to Mycroft. Who had no option but to drop his umbrella before he dropped the baby instead.

"Like a pretty picture brother dear, doesn't it make you miss it?" Sherlock smirked at his brother's slight discomfort at holding another's child.

This time the irritation could be seen on his face but only briefly, "Hardly appropriate, I could have dropped her." He said as he bounced the child slightly calming her down.

"But you didn't."

"I _could_ have."

Mary cut in before they could continue, she had her head tilted slightly to the side "You look rather comfortable holding her, and you got her to stop crying." She muttered in wonder.

Mycroft just gave another one of his polite smiles. Sherlock butted in before he could say anything, "It's hardly his first time holding a baby." He told them, making Mycroft sigh.

"You mean he held you when you were a baby?" John asked as he watched Mycroft hand his daughter back to his wife. He noticed how the elder Holmes just seemed entirely too comfortable with a baby.

Sherlock sighed, "No, he's had other practice should we say." But he didn't elaborate.

John and Mary just looked confused.

"Sherlock, I need your help." Mycroft finally got back on track as to why he was here.

"My help? You hardly need my help, you _are_ the British Government after all."

The elder Holmes leaned down and picked up his umbrella, "Yes well-"

"Mr. Holmes?" A voice cut in making Mycroft sigh and Sherlock smirk.

"Yes, hello again Detective. Wonderful to see you. Now Sherlock-" Mycroft gave another polite smile towards Lestrade before looking once again back to his little brother.

"What on earth are you doing here?" Lestrade asked as he sipped his punch.

Mycroft sighed, his irritation finally breaking through for all to see, "I'm here on a matter of importance, now Sherlock Holmes, you _will_ help me."

Sherlock took his punch back from Mary at that very moment and took a sip before dramatically looking around "Can't you see we're at a _baby shower_? I could _hardly_ leave. Besides the fact, you didn't say please, what could be _so_ important that you need my help?"

"Elizabeth has gone missing," Mycroft finally snapped "And I need your help finding her."

Sherlock paused, and the others looked confused, John spoke up for all of them "Elizabeth?" He asked looking between the two brothers.

"Mycroft's daughter," Sherlock said dismissively before asking his brother "When?"

John sputtered out " _D-Daughter?_ Errr, what? Y-You mean there's more of you?" The others looked just as surprised.

"Exactly thirty-one hours and fifteen minutes ago," Came Mycroft's swift reply. It seemed the brothers were hardly paying attention to the others.

"Any clues?"

At that question Mycroft seemed to tense and shift uncomfortably, Sherlock eyed him, "This is hardly the appropriate setting to discuss this." Mycroft said, looking pointedly at his brother.

"Yes quite right, John? We'll be using the spare room down the hall, the one we had everyone's throw their coats into."

And with that, he turned and made his way out of the hall with Mycroft following right behind. The others shared a look before Mary passed her daughter onto one of her friends and herded the boys out.

* * *

 **Ahhhh, I really tried. Was it okay? I have a certain way I want it to play out so I hope nothing seems rushed, I'm trying to go at a reasonable pace. Not too slow yet not too fast either. Let me know what you think in a review, honestly they give me life lol.**

 **Fav and all that jazz ;)**


	3. Chapter 3

**Title: A Story Unfolds: His Heart**

 **World: Sherlock (Set after Series 3, no Moriarty returns, disregards Series 4 for now)**

 **Main POV: Mycroft Holmes, may sometimes vary.  
**

 **Rating: M for Blood, Gore, Adult Themes and Strong Language**

 **Beta: Myself (I do triple check for mistakes but if any, point them out :))**

 **Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock, but I do own Elizabeth.**

 **Author's Note: Alright here we go, finally out, jeez, just been so busy lately, thank you to those who favorite'd and followed ;) Hope you enjoy the chapter!**

* * *

"What do you know of an organization called, Red Heart?"

"Err, Red Heart? That's not a _real_ name is it?" John asked just as Sherlock said "Nothing."

"Good." Mycroft looked at them both as he shifted, putting his weight on his right foot and umbrella.

Sherlock raised a brow at his brother "You certainly would not have come here just to see what we knew of some fake named terrorist organization, brother dear."

"Of course not brother mine," Mycroft toed the ground with his umbrella "Red Heart is _very_ real and extremely dangerous."

"Then why have we never heard of them before? Have you heard of them Lestrade?" John asked.

Lestrade shook his head "Never heard of them in my life."

Mycroft looked towards them briefly "That would be the doing of the British Government Doctor Watson, Detective. We decided it was best if the public knew nothing about them. But they're always there, always lurking. Causing no end of grief for us."

"And yet you haven't taken them down, you're getting slow Mycroft," Sherlock smirked as he picked up a purple coat than with a look of slight disgust tossed it back over the chair it was laying on.

Mycroft smiled mockingly, "Don't be silly little brother, they're brilliant, well hidden, hardly leaves a trace, except for this." He pulled two black calling cards out of his pocket, he held them out to Sherlock who all but snatched them.

As Sherlock flipped the cards, smelt them and even _licked_ one of them Mycroft continued, "A black card with a red heart and golden crown is left at every scene they're involved with Sherlock. One was at the recent bombing at the Westminster tube and the other on Elizabeth's dead driver."

John took one of the cards off Sherlock –who was holding the other up to the light – and flipped it around a few times before passing it to his wife "You're saying they took your d-daughter?" It was still a little hard for John to grasp that _Mycroft_ had a child.

Mycroft gave him a hard smile "I guarantee it."

"Well, what would they want with your daughter?" The Detective asked confused.

Before Mycroft could speak Sherlock did "He's the bloody British Government Graham, even Scotland Yard could do the math."

Lestrade frowned "It's _Greg_."

Sherlock rolled his eyes "Hardly Important," He held up the black card, heart facing forward "Made from _expensive_ black plastic, not paper, approximately three point five by two inches, standard size, the red ink itself cost around seven hundred pounds, probably more. It smells and tastes like mint, more than likely from the mints you keep in your pocket brother dear." He smirked while Mycroft huffed. "It's personalized, unique, meaning each card is done by hand, and they obviously think themselves _very_ important if they've had their signature cards handmade."

"Yes, I already knew that Sherlock. We've cross-ran it through the database, it doesn't match any known artist. The ink is from a soon-to-be-extinct tree called Dracaena cinnabari, better known as Dragon's Blood." Mycroft turned himself half an inch while looking towards the others in the room "The tree bleeds red sap, which is often sought out by those who wish to sell it to the highest bidder. It costs roughly, nine hundred pounds for fifteen milliliters. There's no fingerprints or smudges. We tried tracking the ink, but our sources have come up empty-handed."

Everyone besides Sherlock looked surprised, " _Nine_ hundred pounds!?" John exclaimed as he shared a glance with Mary, who had yet to speak up on the matter.

"Blimey, that's a lot of money for some red ink." Lestrade chipped in, running a hand through his hair looking more than a bit shocked. "Who the _hell_ spends that much money on ink!?"

"Someone who thinks themselves very important, someone who has more than enough money," Sherlock tossed the card up into the air and caught it "This is pocket change for them. The card itself proves that. It gives the other party a _glimpse_ at just how much money and power they have. This is _brilliant_."

Mycroft gave him a dry look "I haven't come to you so you could play around Sherlock, I need your help finding Elizabeth, not bringing down the organization."

" _Dull_." Sherlock responded with an eye roll, but quickly interjected before Mycroft or John –who was giving him a disapproving look– could say anything, "But, I have grown quite fond of my niece so you can count on my help."

Mycroft gave him a mocking smile, "Wonderful."

Lestrade frowned "Hold on a minute, you still haven't _really_ told us anything about this organization."

Mary, who had been clicking away on her phone finally spoke up, "Red Heart, founded in nineteen-thirty-two by a thirty-three-year-old Mr. James B. Blackheart and his wife, thirty-two, Amelia Blackheart. Their first known terrorist act was a bombing the same year, killed seven people, injury twenty-four, never caught. Six months later there was a shooting at Trafalgar Square, killed forty-one people, injured twenty. Fifteen of those where children, all that was left at the scene was a black card with a red heart and golden crown." She told the room reading from her phone.

Mycroft looked notably irritated "Do I even want to know where you got that information, Mrs. Watson?" He asked, but looked like he already knew the answer.

Mary just smiled, "I still think MI5 security would be a good idea."

Lestrade looked wide eye at Mary "What..?" He asked, then shook his head "I don't even wanna know." He muttered.

"Probably for the best," Sherlock added.

Exasperated, Mycroft sighed, after the last incident; he had MI5 security updated, _ten folds_ and yet, it still seemed to be no match for one Mary Watson. Perhaps, he should hire her to secure it. Obviously, his imbecile security technicians couldn't.

Making a mental note to write it down in his notebook, Mycroft sighed once more and with a slight grimace spoke to the room, "Mrs. Watson is correct, James Benjamin Blackheart and his wife Amelia, founded 'Red Heart' after their son, William age twelve, died at St Bartholomew's Hospital after a stabbing in nineteen-thirty-one during the Great Depression." Mycroft moved his umbrella to his left hand and put his right into his pocket, "They were angry, times were hard for everyone, and their son was murdered by a poor petty thief. Looking for someone to blame, they blamed their King and vowed to fight back.

"And fighting back lead to killing hundreds?" John frowned, it hardly made sense to him.

Mycroft just smiled, "All in the name of freeing their country they believe."

Finally, Sherlock cut in, "I'll need to see the body."

"Whose?" Mycroft raised a brow.

Sherlock sighed "The drivers! You said he was killed, I _will_ need to see the body." He walked to the window and looked out, scanning the road.

"There's nothing on the body, he was shot point blank from a nine millimeter Glock Seventeen."

"Standard British Army sidearm."

"Yes," Mycroft shifted. "Handmade Red Heart bullets."

Sherlock turned around "Untraceable bullets."

"Unfortunately." Mycroft got a buzz on his phone, pulling it out of his pocket he continued to speak "I did say they were smart Sherlock."

"Obviously, they managed to outsmart and elude even you, brother dear," Mycroft gave him a dry look before looking back down to his phone, it was rude, he knew, but sometimes it's unavoidable. "I'll still want to see the body."

Mycroft put his phone away, "If you must, but it won't tell you much."

Sherlock just smirked, "Oh, I think it'll tell me plenty."

A knock sounded at the door and a moment later a blond head poked in "Sorry to interrupt," The woman smiled nervously, "But Mary, Rosie is screaming, I think she wants her mummy now."

Mary just smiled and walked towards the door, she gave John a look that clearly said she wanted to be filled in later before leaving. The others just looked around for a few moments after the door shut, Mycroft again shifted uncomfortably, every part of him wanted information, and he wanted it _yesterday_.

"Could the driver have been in on it?" Sherlock broke the silence.

Mycroft shook his head and once again toed the ground with his umbrella, "No."

"How can you be sure?" John pressed looking between the brothers.

Lestrade chimed in "Yeah, sometimes these things lead it to being the driver, he's unhappy about something, so he takes it out on the boss or got paid a hefty sum to deliver the girl."

Sherlock scoffed "That only happens in movies, George."

"It's _Greg_ , can you seriously not remember?"

"Close enough." Came the response.

The elder Holmes interrupted "Trust me, Detective, the driver, had no involvement in it." Mycroft gave them an exasperated smile.

"Well," John started slowly, choosing his words carefully, "If you can't find her, then…" He trailed off, saying it but not really saying it. Lestrade agreed, but he didn't dare say it. Honestly, the older Holmes scared him.

The room dropped silent and stayed that way for what seemed like ages until Mycroft finally spoke, and very fake smiled plastered on his face, "I cannot find her using the British Government, _but_ there are ways, should we say, on getting the information one needs."

John and Lestrade just looked confused, Sherlock sighed loudly, "Dear God, is it hard having such slow brains? He means that by abiding by the law we cannot get the information we need, so where do we go next? If we cannot abide by the law, then we go where there is no law, and you can get whatever you need at the right price."

"You mean Underground?" Lestrade asked with wide eyes. He couldn't believe what he was hearing, then he paused and rethought that, actually, he could believe what he was hearing.

"The Black Market," John said looking surprised that Mycroft would hint at such a thing, and faintly surprised Sherlock said it so casually. Although, he really shouldn't have been surprised.

Sherlock gave Lestrade a look that clearly said he thought the man was an idiot before replying, " _Yes_ the Black Market! There's always whispers of whispers, a guy who knows a guy who _knows_ a guy. For the right price, you can get anything."

"Should I be concern that you know that?" John muttered, Sherlock just smirked before turning back to his brother.

"I'll assume you won't be coming," Sherlock stated more than asked, his tone bored.

"A person of my position could _hardly_ be seen at such a place."

"Of course not," Sherlock made his way to the door, "John come quickly."

John blinked "H-Huh? W-Wait, I can't just leave Sherlock!"

Sherlock rolled his eyes "Oh I'm sure Mary will understand," He stopped and turned to his brother "The body?"

Mycroft just sighed, "At St Bart's, it'll be there."

Sherlock smiled and opened the door, "Sherlock," he paused looking back at his brother "Don't waste time." Sherlock eyed his brother's worried look and without saying anything left, a Dr. John Watson, following after him with a huff and grumbled: " _You're_ telling Mary."

The door closed behind them, leaving Mycroft and the Detective alone when Lestrade made to leave Mycroft stopped him "I have a job for you, Detective."

* * *

 **Phew, there it is. Again, really hope everyone is in character. Let me know what you think or if there's something I need to improve on.  
**

 **Fav and all that Jazz ;)**


	4. Chapter 4

**Title: A Story Unfolds: His Heart**

 **World: Sherlock (Set after Series 3, no 'Moriarty returns', disregards Series 4 for now)**

 **Main POV: Mycroft Holmes, may sometimes vary.  
**

 **Rating: M for Blood, Gore, Adult Themes (of all kinds), and Strong Language  
**

 **Beta: Myself (I do triple check for mistakes but if any, point them out :))**

 **Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock, but I do own Elizabeth.**

 **Author's Note: Hi-ho, Here it is, chapter four! Bit of a wait, _I know_. Apologies on that one. But alas! I have come baring a chapter! Just a shout out to everyone who has favorited, followed, and also reviewed, thank you guys so much! I _really_ wasn't expecting a whole lot so it's been a nice surprise :) Hope everyone enjoys the new chapter, will put a warning down below, and I think I'll do it for every chapter here on out. But, that being said READ THIS PART: I just want to mention this story will touch upon the more darker side of things, I won't go too much into it, unless I get some positive feedback. I understand it's not everyone's cup of tea, hence the warnings I'll put below. Don't be shy, leave me a review or PM if it's something you'd prefer I don't write too deeply into it. Sexual assault, WILL be mentioned and touched upon, IF I decide to go down the route. But it IS a VERY big possibility, that I will. For, I like to make my stories as realistic as possible. Again, tell me what you think :)  
**

 **Edit: Sorry guys not an update, I was fixing some grammar etc!**

 **WARNINGS: VERY BRIEF MENTIONS OF POSSIBLE SEXUAL ASSAULT, MENTIONS OF PHYSICALLY ASSAULT, MENTIONS OF BLOOD**

* * *

 _Mycroft turned his head towards the bedroom window, rain-splattered harshly against it, a great binding, white light flashed throughout the room, followed seconds later by a loud deafening rumble, before it settled down again and nothing but the harsh rain against glass could be heard._

 _With a sigh, Mycroft rolled himself entirely towards the window. His left hand ran down the empty side of the bed, he grasped at the sheet, another flash of white went through the room. The gold ring on his left finger shined brightly before the light receded and turned it dull once more._

 _Mycroft wasn't a sentimental man; emotions were not something he dwelled upon,_ ever _._ _And yet tonight, the very heart people said he didn't have, felt like someone had grabbed it and decided to see just how hard they could crush it without killing him,_ repeatedly _. It left he gasping for what little breath he could. Is this what dying felt like?_

Emotions _, he hated them, he understood them for the most part, but he chose to turn his back on them. It made his life so much easier when petty things like feelings weren't brought in, at least, until,_ she _came along. She tore down the very walls he had carefully built up, showed him that caring_ could _be an advantage._

 _Mycroft scoffed and turned onto his back, his ringed hand still clenching tightly at the sheets._

 ** _Caring is not an advantage._**

 _The proof, as they say, is in the pudding. If he had never cared, then he wouldn't feel these things he had no desired to feel. He wouldn't be laying in bed at two in the morning wishing for a different course, another chance, **just one more minute**._

 _He took advantage of something he believed would be there until he was grey and old. But it seemed, life had pushed him down and spat in his face, laughing cruelly at him as he struggled to stand up. That he was destined to grow old alone, with nothing but his mind to keep him company, until that too, left him. He felt empty, and his heart felt cold as ice. And while he knew logically that his heart was still beating, why did it feel like it wasn't?_

 _Mycroft struggled against the feeling to weep at the loss he had so recently suffered. Crying would not change anything. Crying_ never _changed anything. It was human nature to die, it was the one thing a human was guaranteed to always do. Would his tears save them from that fate or even change it?_

 _It wouldn't._

 _Even though he knew this, he was losing the battle to a war he had already lost. He cursed his perfect memory, for all he could see was her smiling face, the way she comforted him after a long hard working days. The warmth that once filled both the house and himself was slowly leaving every day, and yet, the man inside his head, his heart, chased after it. Desperately._

 _Caring was not an advantage._

 _Neither was love._

 _Mycroft turned his head back towards the window, watching as the rain pelted against the glass. Remembering a different time when a warm body was pressed against his own as they watched the rain fall, surrounded by such peace, it made him long for it once more. He squeezed his eyes shut as he took in a deep shuddering breath and felt the first tear slip pass his eye. His hand came up and wiped it away. He opened his eyes and stared in something close to disbelief at the wetness on his fingers. Surely, he had better control than this?_

 _"Daddy?"_

 _A small voice came from behind him, Mycroft turned towards his bedroom door, a soft glow from the hallway light showed the outline of a little body before the door shut with a soft click. Mycroft reached over and flipped on his bedside lamp, its light illuminated the face of his three, nearly four-year-old daughter, traces of fear and tears could be seen. In her arms, she held tightly to the little stuffed black bunny that her uncle Sherlock had given to her for her third birthday. Its right ear had a small golden hooped earring, something Elizabeth had demanded when she, herself had gotten her own pierced. Squashed tightly to her chest –and her bunny– was an old withered, tattered book, that no matter what, she refused to give up._

 _"Daddy," she started bashfully before another flash of white and sudden rumble made her squeak in fear and dive into her father's arms, bunny and all._

 _Mycroft tightened his arms around her as another, yet closer, rumble filled the room. An amused Mycroft looked down at the youngest Holmes "I thought you said you weren't scared anymore?" He asked, running his fingers softly through her dark brown curls. Silky to the touch, just like her mothers._

 _Elizabeth burrowed herself further into her father's shirt, "M'not daddy, I-I just couldn't sleep."_

 _Mycroft chuckled softly as her hands gripped him tightly as another rumble of thunder hit their ears. He didn't need his deducing skills to tell him that she had lied when she said that storms didn't scare her, to make herself seem fearless and brave. No doubt she was hoping to impress Sherlock that she wasn't scared anymore._

 _Elizabeth adored her uncle, she always wanted him to tell her about all manner of things he deduces from his fellow students at university. Who stayed the night with who. Who cheated on what test. Silly things that Sherlock found meaningless but nonetheless indulged his niece with. That was when she wasn't following her father around like a little duckling. Something that always made Sherlock smirk and call him mama duck._

 _"Clearly," with a soft look and a fond smile on his face, he muttered: "Would you like to sleep in here with daddy, darling?"_

 _He could feel her nod against his chest, with another chuckle, Mycroft settled the two of them into bed once more. Elizabeth snuggled up against him, her head laying on his arm as he took and moved her book with the other._

 _"Daddy, can we read it again?" she asked him as he went to set the book down. Mycroft paused, it was relatively late, and while she really should have been sleeping, he figured that neither of them would fall asleep any time soon._

 _"Just this once." He told her sternly, she nodded, a big grin overtaking her face._

 _Mycroft settled himself more comfortably on his back, his daughter moved and laid her head on his chest so he could use both his hands._

 _"Squire Trelawney, Dr. Livesey, and the rest of these gentlemen having asked me to write down the whole particulars about Treasure Island…"_

* * *

 _Several chapters later, Mycroft put the old book down. Elizabeth slept soundly on his chest, gently he moved her to his side, her head resting on his arm once more. She let out a small noise before snuggling in closer, her bunny squished tightly between them. Mycroft turned and kissed her head lightly, not wanting to wake her._

 _Caring was not an advantage, yes, but perhaps the love he felt for his child was._

* * *

Mycroft picked up his bourbon and tossed it back, papers were spread messily over his desk. On top of them, laid a rather large plastic bag filled with his daughter's belongings from the accident. He felt very much like he did that night nearly eight years ago, his heart felt hollow and cold.

His personal phone rang and had been for at least ten minutes. A quick glance had told him it was Sherlock, even a few of them were from John.

How long ago was it when he told his brother his niece was missing? Four, five hours? It wasn't long after his brother –followed by Dr. Watson– and soon the DI Lestrade, left, that Mycroft had gotten a rather chilling message.

It had been sent to his personal phone, a single picture followed seconds later by four words. It made his blood run cold, and not for the first time since hearing that Elizabeth was missing did Mycroft feel extraordinary fear. He could do nothing but stare in horror, and if he were any other man, he would have collapsed to his knees.

Seconds later, or perhaps it was minutes, Mycroft regained some sort of self-control, and truly _looked_ at the photo.

It was taken in a somewhat dark room, empty crates used for transporting wine as well as beer bottles sat in the corner along with empty boxes marked CASHEWS and NEW ZEALAND RED LEAN STRIPS, the floor was filthy, covered in dirt, grime, and water. The wall was half brick, half concrete, chunks of the walls were missing and from the looks of it damp. It looked like a basement, if not for the stream of sunlight coming in somewhere from the left of the photo. A window? Possibly, but there was too much light for it to be a window. So a door, an opened one. There weren't any pipes in the picture so where did the water come from?

Mycroft furrowed his brow, perhaps a place accessible to water? A river? The ocean? A stream?

The picture could have been taken bloody anywhere, if not for the corner of what looked to be the British flag. It had been kicked out of the way, but clearly not all of it. So they were still in England. That brought a sense of relief to Mycroft.

His eyes roamed over the photo once more before stopping at the figure who laid slumped on the ground. Dark hair laid scattered, in curly wet clumps, clothes slightly torn, skirt lifted two inches too high, Mycroft swallowed hard, he looked away, briefly, eyes closed tightly and exhaled deeply before turning his eyes back.

Another glance told him nothing of the sexual nature had happened, his mind whispered darkly, and unforgivingly: _yet…_

Clothes covered in layers of filth. Head turned away from the camera, arms tied tightly behind them. Bruising on their collarbone, arms, and legs. A dark patch on her right side, hidden by the lack of light showed something of an off colour taped to her shirt.

 _Elizabeth._

His mind supplied, heart, dropping to his stomach, he felt like he was going to be sick. His sweet, poor child. How had this happened, _why_ had this happen. He'd give anything to switch places with her. Unable to look at her anymore, Mycroft swiped to the message:

 ** _COME AND FIND HER._**

* * *

It wasn't long after that Mycroft had called for his car, ordering them to drive to his office. He gave his phone to Anthea and ordered her to take it to their best hackers and to locate where the message was sent from while also getting their people to find what was clearly a storage room of some sort of establishment, mostly like a bar or restaurant near water of a kind.

When they had arrived, Mycroft left the car without another word, ignoring all the people who scurried out of his way, like scared little rabbits. He would later be told that he had marched through the building looking positively murderous. Whispers would soon float around that they preferred their boss with no expression than the one he had worn.

Upon entering his office, Mycroft made his way to his cabinet filled with different kinds of spirits and liqueurs, his office door slammed loudly behind him, making it clear he was _not_ to be disturbed. Grabbing both a glass and his expensive bourbon, Mycroft turned towards his desk, one, two steps and he paused. On it, was a large plastic bag.

And that's where Mycroft found himself sitting several hours later, the bottle of bourbon half gone and his mind buzzing in different directions, _that's_ what the off colour patch was, his mind supplied.

His phone buzzed again, the screen lit up for a few moments before it stopped, seconds later it started again. With a dreary sigh Mycroft reached out and picked it up, he stared at the screen for a moment before clearing his throat, pressing a button and lifting the phone to his ear.

"What, Sherlock?" He drawled, eyes moving towards his desk.

For on his desk, next to the plastic bag was an old tattered book that laid open, the same book he had read to his daughter all those years ago, and many times since then, the same book that was found in the car surrounded by smashed glass, scattered pens, and paper. The very book his daughter adored but no longer read in fear of it falling apart in her hands, and yet, still carried with her everywhere.

Treasure Island, the book that was covered in blood.

* * *

 **So here we are, let me know what you think in a review below. Loved to hear any thoughts on it, keeping character I hope :)  
**

 **And if you skipped the Author's Note above, I _heavily_ suggest you scroll up and have a quick read. **

**Fav and all that jazz ;)**


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